Author's Note: I forgot to mention in the last A/N: Sorry if anyone was offended by the prayers. Man, this is terrible to be so politically correct. Oh yeah, and to sdf: GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. To anyone who was offended by those statements that sdf was so kind to point out, I offer you my most humble apologies, but the statements were never meant to mean what sdf considered them to mean. I never even thought of them in that context until it was brought to my attention. Sick minds, my friends, are contagious. Anyway. . . Most of the stuff in this chapter is historically correct. Most, I said. Not all. If you care, email me, and I'll be happy to tell you what's true and what ain't. And I decided to leave out the fact that Lowe pitches a sail in his boat-- I don't have the patience to write all that. Sorry. Final note-- ***THIS IS NOT THE END. I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT THE END.*** Anyway, enjoy. Reviews (non-sick) are MORE than welcome!!!! :D

ELEVEN

Lowe's knuckles were pale on the tiller; I watched him as he instructed four boats that had pulled alongside us to tether up. "Bring your oars in over there," he called in the direction of Boat 12. "And tie these two boats together as well. . . make sure that's tied up nice and tight." Lowe's face still held a frightened, almost boyish look to it-- but there was something else behind the fear as he turned back toward the scene of the sinking. I could see resolve in his eyes. He obviously wanted to go back, and he wanted to go back now.

The passengers in Boat 14, however, seemed to have no intention whatsoever of returning to the scene. Many of them were weeping quietly, or whimpering to themselves. For a moment I listened to the commotion of shouts and pleads from the area where the ship had gone down. Looking in that direction, I could see the thousand-plus passengers and crew that had been dumped into the sea, all struggling to find help. They were screaming, begging for mercy, for one boat to come back. Then, without warning, a shrill whistle sliced across the waves. It sounded once. . . twice. . . three times-- all in long breaths. The whistle blows paused for a long moment, then began again.

I felt sick to my stomach when I remembered that the only person I'd seen with a whistle on that evening was Chief Officer Wilde. I hadn't known him very well, but I'd been near him during some of the biggest events of the night-- like when Murdoch had killed himself, and in the chartroom.

"We've got to go back." I said to Lowe, still shaking, pulling the blanket tighter around me. "This is madness. We can't wait any longer."

His hand that held the electric torch was trembling, but I knew it wasn't from fear-- Lowe was buzzing with nervous energy, coupled with the cold air. He again turned back to the scene, then to me, and nodded shortly, his eyes hardening with determination. "Right, listen to me, men!" he shouted, and everyone in all five lifeboats turned toward him. "We have to go back! I want to transfer all the women from this boat into that boat right now, as quick as y'can, please!" Immediately a woman stood up, and a crewman from Boat 4 next to us reached out a hand to help her over. She was followed by several more women. "Let's get some space over there, move forward and aft!"

I glanced up at Lowe. "I'll stay here and row."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, though not unkindly. "You've got to get to another one of these boats. We've got enough crewmen."

"If you think I'm going to just sit out in those boats not doing anything. . ."

He swallowed. "It's not going to be pretty. I'd rather you not have so see all of--"

"Lowe," I said earnestly, unable to keep the tone of my voice from rising slightly. "I'm going to goddam freeze to death if I switch boats. I'll help your men row, and when we get to the scene, I can help pick up survivors."

His concerned eyes were pleading with me to reconsider. "Miss Stevenson, please. . . I cannot allow you."

If I heard one more person call me "Miss Stevenson". . . I took in a deep breath to keep myself from snapping at him. "First off, my name is Carrie. Or just plain Stevenson. I'm so damn sick of everybody--" I stopped myself. No time. "Alright, second, I'm not stupid-- I know how to work a set of oars. And I'm serious-- I'm going to get frostbite or hypothermia or something equally pleasant unless I start doing something with my muscles. Just sitting here like an ice cube when I can work is too goddam selfish for my taste."

Lowe looked at Ed Buley, who was looking right back at him. "C'mon, Harry." Buley said. Nice to have a fan, I thought sarcastically.

Lowe looked back at me, then dropped his eyes, as though he were embarrassed. "Yes. Of course you can stay. I-- sorry."

I let out a relieved breath. "Thanks, Lowe." I did my best to smile, suddenly feeling kind of embarrassed for being so rude to him. "I owe you one."

It took a good twenty minutes to get our boat cleared, and then some volunteers to help row the boats back. By this time, the pleading from the accident site had quieted quite a bit. While awful, at least we knew that we wouldn't be completely swamped by survivors when we got there. I didn't even hear the whistle anymore. Lowe directed me to my own oar, near him and the tiller. "All together, men!" he called finally, then glanced down at me. "And lady."

"Thanks," I said, wrapping my fingers around the icy oar, shedding the woolen blanket. The air bit through my still-damp clothes, chilling me, but at that moment, Lowe picked up a steady, slow chant of "Pull!. . . Pull!. . ." And we moved our oars accordingly.

By the time we'd put some distance between us and the other boats, I was growing a little warmer-- but just a little. Halfway there, my arms were screaming from the effort of propelling the boat. I was sure that usually I'd have been just fine-- but usually, I didn't swim three hundred yards through 30-degree water in the middle of the North Atlantic. The exhaustion was slowly beginning to kick in.

My muscles were burning as I moved my oar. I was trembling from the sheer cold of the air and my damp clothes. My hair had started to dry, but not much-- it had fallen out of its tying cord and was hanging limp against my shoulders. My fingers were numb on the oar (I couldn't even feel Thomas' ring), and I was sure that my toes had turned into little ice cubes.

The other point was that I felt tired. Utterly and completely dead tired. Each stroke of the oar felt like trying to sprint through molasses in wintertime. My eyelids felt heavy as paving slabs; I would have been content to curl right up on that hard wooden bench and fall asleep. However, I knew that if I didn't keep moving, I'd be in real trouble.

Lowe seemed to read my thoughts. "You can pause if you want," he said quietly, so that the other men wouldn't hear. I was grateful for his suggestion, and that he knew I would have been mortified for the other men to think that I couldn't handle this.

"Thanks," I murmured back. "But no thanks." I swallowed. "Oh, and-- sorry I kind of snapped at you earlier."

Lowe nodded very slightly, but he was relieved that I'd apologized. "Understood."

The blackness stretched out ahead of us, the horizon tinged blue. Lowe turned his electric torch on the sea again; there was no sound save for the quiet splish of water against the oars, and the gentle creaking of the lifeboat. Under the flashlight beam, a corpse came into view, bobbing slightly on the waves. It was a dark-haired man, a tuxedo collar visible under his life jacket. A frozen, wide-eyed stare was emblazoned forever on his face, and his arms floated spread-eagled. I heard Lowe let out a shaky breath, and watched the beam of light travel further. Suddenly we were staring into an entire field thick with dead, floating, lifebelted passengers.

"Jesus Christ in holy heaven." a crewman on the other side of the boat murmured.

"All ahead, sir." Scarrott urged.

"Do you see any moving?" Lowe called softly.

"No, sir." Scarrott mumbled. "None moving, sir."

"Check them." Lowe insisted, and glanced at one of the crewmen. "Bring that oar up here."

Ed Buley clamped a hand to his mouth as the oar was drawn into the boat; he let go of his own oar, leaned over the side of the lifeboat, and vomited into the sea. I didn't blame him one bit; I, too, felt sick to my stomach as I stared at the dead, frosted faces of passengers.

"Check them," Lowe murmured, his voice rough but quiet. "Make sure."

Buley, eyes red-rimmed, said thickly, "These are dead, sir."

"They'll give way," Lowe told him softy. "Ahead easy." Two crewmembers leaned over either side of the boat to move the bodies out of the way. "Careful with your oars," Lowe said, his voice the slightest bit unsteady. "Don't hit them." He then raised his voice to a holler, and it shot across the void. "Is there anyone alive out there!?" It seemed unbelievably loud as compared to the quietness in the boat. "Can anyone hear me!?"

Off to the right, there was a woman floating in a lifejacket with a baby clutched in her stiff arms. Neither moved or drew breath.

"We waited too long," Lowe croaked. His lower lip trembled, and his eyes were glassy as he looked over the woman and child, and the other bodies. He glanced sharply back at the crewmen and saw that several of them watched him. "Well keep checkin' them!" he snapped, blinking to clear his tears, embarrassed. "Keep lookin'!"

No one replied. There was no movement in the field of passengers at all.

The cold pressed in on all sides; somehow it seemed much more chilling here than it did on the open ocean. Currently, only the two front crewmen were rowing, to keep the boat moving slowly. Lowe continued his occasional "Is anyone alive out there!?" shouting, but still he received no reply.

I was trembling as I gripped the oar, white-knuckled, trying not to stare too deeply into the faces of the deceased. The silence was so unbelievably eerie; it was frightening to see so many people and not have a single sound emitted from them. The frigidity of the air was the last thing on my mind.

Lowe continued to shine the flashlight over the green-tinged ocean; he was taking in deep, slow breaths to keep himself calm. "Hello," he called, stretching the word out. The end of the field of passengers was ending in another thirty yards; we'd have to change direction and go through another part of it.

"There's got to be somebody." I whispered, almost to myself more than anything. "One person." It was utterly impossible that so many people had been killed.

Without warning, a whistle blast sliced across the air in long, shaky beats. We all jumped a mile; Lowe whipped around toward the noise. "Turn her bound!" he hollered, voice rough from shouting.

The whistle continued blowing; an immense hope surfaced within me as we got the boat turned around. It had to be Wilde. It had to be. Please, God, let it be Wilde. I helped row toward the oncoming blasts, careful where I set my oars. Lowe was searching with his electric torch, trying to find the owner of the whistle; he found it and called, "A little to port!" The whistle shrieks grew louder as we neared; I turned to see who it was as Lowe shined the flashlight down on the survivor.

I didn't recognize the person with the whistle in their mouth at first-- all I noticed was that the woman blowing it was hanging onto a floating deck chair. . . and on the other side of the deck chair, a dead Chief Officer Wilde was still clinging to the woodwork. His head was frozen at an angle, and frost covered his hair and closed eyelashes. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his hat, and his thick brown hair was spilled across his forehead.

All the strength seemed to drain out of Lowe at that moment. "Oh, God!" he said hoarsely, recognizing the fallen officer; he nearly lost his balance as he sat down hard on the bench next to me, shivering.

I put a hand on his shoulder to steady him as the boat drew alongside the deck chair and the woman, who was still blowing hte whistle. Only after Buley and another crewman-- Joe Scarrott-- hauled her into the boat did she stop whistling, and then I recognized her. "Rose." I breathed.

She slowly turned to look at me. Her red hair was in soaking strings, and her eyes had deep, dark circles cut under them. She was clearly exhausted, and freezing cold, from the way she was shivering and having trouble breathing. "C-Car-rie." she said, voice hardly audible.

I swallowed. "Jack. . ."

She shook her head in tiny, trembly jerks, not even aware of Scarrott removing her heavy, saturated coat and lifejacket to trade for a heavy woolen blanket. Then she collapsed against the floor of the boat and closed her eyes.

That shake of the head and the dead look in her eyes told me exactly what I hadn't wanted to hear. Jack, too, was gone.

Lowe and I both were shaking uncontrollably, but one look at him and I knew I had to keep strong. We both did. Goddam it, cry later. I thought angrily, and energy pounded through my veins anew.

Lowe took in a final shaky breath, and then his eyes flickered upward again toward the crewmen, who were waiting for orders. "Let's keep looking." he said slowly, and his voice was hollow and lifeless.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Lowe once again dropped onto the bench seat beside me and grabbed another huge blanket. He threw it over both of our shoulders and we huddled together against the cold. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be thrilled about sitting so damn close to Lowe when we barely knew each other, but we were both freezing to death and didn't have any other options. My hair was nearly dry by now; Lowe's pocket watch read 3:27 am. More than an hour since the ship had gone under, and now we had nothing else to do but wait. Since Rose, we'd picked up three other people. We'd given up on everyone else-- no way it was humanely possible to live this long in below-freezing water.

Lowe and I were both shivering from the cold, but it was somewhat comforting to be leaning on each other's shoulders, sharing our fears and warmth. I mumbled to Lowe, "If I doze off, pinch me or yell in my ear or something."

"I should just let you sleep." he said, pulling his hat lower on his head.

"I mean it," I told him, exhausted.

"I know you do," he said back, glancing at me, eyes showing that he did know. "Same with me."

"You got it." I assured him tiredly, struggling to keep my eyes open. I watched the blue-tinged horizon line, knowing that the sunrise would be visible soon. I let out a long breath, finally feeling like I was warming up a little bit. I let my eyes drop closed-- just for a moment. Any longer and I'd fall right asleep. But a couple of seconds wouldn't hurt anything. . .

"Carrie."

"Huh." I blinked. Damn. I was only supposed to shut my eyes for a minute. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. Thanks."

"It's fine." Lowe shifted, his eyes dull with exhaustion.

"Have the time?" I asked him, leaning my elbows on my knees.

"Five till four." he murmured with a glance at his watch.

"Shit," I mumbled. "I was out that long?"

"I think I drifted off as well." he said, and yawned widely, thoroughly tired and depressed.

I turned back to the horizon line, which seemed to be of a faintly lighter blue now. Nearly daybreak. I blinked, my eyelids still feeling as though lead weights were attached to them.

It was then that I noticed the light on the horizon.

The lead weights disappeared; my entire body went rigid as I squinted into the distance. The light was so tiny that I thought I was imagining it, but it was still there-- and there was only one thing it could be.

"Lowe!" I breathed, nudging him in the ribs, suddenly shaking all over again.

"I thought I was hallucinating," he said, and threw off the blanket. "Look there, men!" he pointed in the direction of the tiny flicker of light.

"Christ," Buley said after a moment of squinting. "It's a ship!"

For a moment there was silence as every eye in Boat 14 locked onto the pinprick of hope in the distance. Suddenly, another spot of light flew into the air over the ship, and burst.

The ship was sending up rockets-- letting us know that it was on its way.

"She's comin' for us!" Scarrott yelped gleefully, and the rest of the boat picked up the cheer.

That bit of intelligence was the most comforting I'd heard in my entire life. The relief that I felt then can't even be put into words; I sagged against the oar, bleary-eyed, as the other men whooped and whistled. Lowe nearly attacked me in a cheerful embrace; I returned it best I could, smiling for the first time in hours.

"Has to be the Carpathia." he said, now looking around in the bottom of the boat. He found one of the boxes used to keep supplies and tore it open; his fist emerged with a handful of rockets. "I heard from Phillips that she was on the way a little past midnight."

"Can you set those off here?" I asked warily as Lowe began to arrange the mechanism for firing the rockets.

"That's what they're built for," he said, and glanced around. "Anyone have a lighter? The matches are damp."

"I've got one." Scarrott tossed his to Lowe, who flipped open the lid before glancing back at the lights on the horizon.

"I really think we're saved," he announced, a slight smile on his face as he lit the first rocket. It went off with a metallic woosh, and popped high above our heads, letting off a shower of brilliant sparks. Lowe looked back toward the steamer. "Pick up an oar, everyone. Let's get moving!"

I stepped over the bench toward my oar, and began rowing with the rest of the men. Four knots? I guessed as Lowe took over the tiller. Five, maybe? At least we're getting there. The waves were slightly choppy now, and the eastern sky was graying, a soft breeze picking up.

"Thank God," Buley was saying. "Praise Jesus."

"Amen," Scarrott said, smiling in his seat to the right of me.

In ten minutes, we picked up Collapsible D, which had gotten detached from the little fleet that Lowe had pulled together earlier. Lowe threw a rope over and we took them in tow; a moment after that he let up another rocket.

Half an hour and two rockets later, on the way to the ship, we spotted Collapsible A, which was nearly flooded and hardly moving. "We'll have to take them on board," Lowe said, eyes boring into the little vessel. "There's hardly a score of them. We've got plenty of room."

We certainly did. It took twenty minutes to transfer the passengers into our boat, and we left three bodies behind in Collapsible A. "I'm here for the living," Lowe murmured, clearly not liking the idea of leaving the three dead men. "Not the deceased."

The rest passed in a blur. The blackness of night slowly faded into a deep blue, which in turn paled to dull gray. We could see the steamer now clearly, other boats heading toward her. The sun streaked the clouds with orange and pink and gold, and bluish icebergs stood out on the dark sea. The cold was slowly ebbing away from the air, but a wind was picking up.

It was seven o'clock when we reached the Carpathia. A rope ladder was thrown down to us, and passengers immediately started to climb, kept in order by Buley and Scarrott.

While the passengers slowly climbed, I helped Lowe put away the unused rockets and lime-green flares, tucking them securely back into the boxes. Together we folded up several of the woolen blankets. Lowe didn't even protest my staying behind to help him; instead we finished packing the supplies away in silence and I started up the ladder, Lowe two steps behind me.

At this point my entire body was one throbbing mess of exhaustion, coldness, and aching muscles from the rowing, but I knew I couldn't rest yet. I turned to give Lowe a final hand up; he tried to smile his gratitude.

"Are you Mr. Lowe, sir?" a uniformed man stepped up to us immediately, his mustache thick and trim. The uniform didn't exactly match Lowe's; I figured it was an officer from the Carpathia.

"Yes, sir, I am." Lowe said, eyes dull with tiredness.

"They'd like you to report to the bridge, Mr. Lowe." the man said sharply, but not cruelly. "You should find Third Officer Pitman and Fourth Officer Boxhall of the Titanic waiting there."

Lowe's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you," he said, nodding a little. "Thanks. I--" he glanced at me, then back at the officer. "Sir, I'd appreciate it if you could take my good friend Carrie to someplace where she can rest-- preferably someplace comfortable."

The officer nodded slightly. "Certainly, Mr. Lowe."

Lowe glanced at me. "I'll come check on you later," he promised, and gave one final tiny smile of gratitude before disappearing in the crowd, heading for the bridge.

The officer also tried a smile. "Miss, you'd best come with me."

I didn't really feel like leaving yet, though. "Would you mind if I stayed?" I asked him, a harsh wind picking up, whipping through my clothes. An involuntary shiver raced through me.

"I suppose not," he said, glancing past me at another boat approaching. "Just ask a steward if you require assistance."

"Thanks," I told him, and moved near the rail. I immediately found Ed Buley. "I've been given instructions to direct ill passengers to the infirmary." he told me. "Got it in you to give me a hand?"

"Yeah, sure." I said, and he gave me the directions, telling me to instruct passengers on where to go.

The boat finished unloading, and the next one came in. An old woman. . . two middle-aged women. . . a young man. . . a girl in her late teens. . . for a moment I studied the girl as she stepped back to wait for whomever was behind her. She looked incredibly familiar, but I couldn't place it. Where had I seen her. . .

But then the woman behind her finished climbing the ladder, and I recognized the two of them-- it was the wife and daughter of Tim Breckenridge, whom I'd spoken to in the corridor when Thomas and I were rounding up passengers. His was the family that couldn't get their lifebelts right. I leaned over the railing, trying to see if Tim himself had made it.

Relieved, I watched him climbing the ladder, slowly and tiredly, but at least he was alive. He got to the top of the ladder and embraced his wife with one arm, his daughter with the other. I gave them a moment, and then couldn't help but to step over. "Glad to see you three made it," I said.

Tim turned toward me, and his eyes flooded with surprise. "Miss Stevenson!" he said, and smiled broadly. "You made it."

"So did you," I said, and couldn't help but to smile back. "Check both sides?"

"We did indeed." Tim said. "Got in without a single protest from the officer."

I blinked. "Did you know which officer it was?"

"Murdoch, I believe." Tim said, holding his wife and daughter to him. "Scotsman. About five feet ten."

"That's him," I said quietly, suddenly depressed all over again.

Tim's eyes saddened at the sight of my dull ones. "Didn't make it, did he." it wasn't a question.

"No." I said, and had to take in a deep breath to keep my eyes from blurring. "He didn't."

"Well." Tim muttered at last. "I'm going to go find us some coffee."

"Go for it," I said, and gave him the directions to the dining saloon.

I stayed on the deck for another hour helping out, trying to think of anything besides Thomas and my other friends. I couldn't handle the pain, not yet.

At 8:30, Boat 12 pulled up to us-- or rather, we pulled up to it. It was the last boat, or so Buley said, and at the tiller was Second Officer Lightoller. I nearly cried out with relief as I saw him, exhausted but still commanding the boat. It was clear that there were many more in this load than the sixty-five maximum, and it was low on the water.

Lightoller was the last one aboard. I don't know how he hauled himself up the ladder, he was so tired. His eyes were half closed and had dark circles underneath them, and he was shivering from the cold-- his uniform was still damp from the sea. I don't know why I felt so attached to him, but I made sure that I was there when he finally stepped onto the deck.

For a moment he swayed, and I thought he would fall over, but I quickly stepped forward and he grabbed my shoulder to steady himself. "Thank you," he said tiredly, and only then did he look up, and his sunken eyes widened. "Carrie," he breathed. "You-- you're here!"

"Hey, I told you I'd make it to a boat." I said, taking his left hand and throwing his arm around my shoulder to support him; half of his weight fell there. "Come on, I'll take you to the hospital wing."

"No," he said, but we were already walking. "They'll want me on the bridge. . ."

"Bullshit," I said as we made steady progress toward the entrance of the corridors. "You can't report anything in this state."

"You're right." he said without argument, then mumbled, "How did you get to a lifeboat?"


"Swam." I said simply.

"Oh." Lightoller half smiled. "Right. Surprising how you can do that in water."

"Sure is," I said, and smiled back a little. "What about you? Looks like you got that collapsible righted."

"Not really," he admitted as we moved down a corridor clogged with passengers. "We had about thirty men on the collapsible, then Number 12 found us about an hour ago and took us on board. We were nearly sinking by that point."

"No wonder you're so soaked," I said; a line of water had soaked into my shoulders from his sleeve. "I can't believe you're still standing."

"Neither can I." he said, and I drew his arm from my shoulder as we got to the infirmary. "Thanks, Carrie." he leaned against the wall for a moment, shivering. I waited, my own legs trembling from exhaustion. If I didn't sit down soon, I was going to collapse.

"You're welcome." I said, and he took in a deep breath before pushing himself off the wall again. "You go get some rest."

"I shall." he said, and dragged himself into the crowded infirmary.

I breathed in a shaky breath before turning away. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with exhaustion, dizziness making the corridor spin. My knees buckled, and I don't even remember hitting the floor.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

I blinked slowly, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. I still felt tired, but one hell of a lot better, and the dizziness was gone. My clothes and hair were dry. I slowly looked around the ten-by-twenty room; I was on a bed almost right across from the door, and nurses were quietly moving around. The windows were dark; it was either very late or very early.

Suddenly I noticed someone standing in the door, and I turned my head on the pillow to look.

It was Thomas.

A trillion thoughts burst through my mind in that nanosecond. He was standing there, wrist on the doorframe and hand on his hip, just as he'd been when I'd last seen him. He was fighting a smile, that look I'd come to love, and his eyes twinkled as they stared into mine.

I sat bolt upright and his name flew from my lips. "Thomas!"

He was gone.

I blinked, wide-eyed, and realized that nurses were staring at me as I gaped at the empty doorway. No. Please, God, no-- I couldn't have been dreaming. "There was just someone there," I said, my breath coming short and fast, heart pounding. "Wasn't there? I just saw--"

"You were dreaming, miss." one of the nurses said gently.

I felt like I couldn't breathe; I threw off the sheets and ran for the doorway. "Miss!" one of the nurses said, irritated, as I poked my head around the door. No one was on either side of the long corridor.

Trembling from head to foot, adrenaline aftereffects surging through me, I headed back for my bed, grabbed my shoes from either side of it, and headed once again for the door. The clock on the way out told me that it was five-thirty, and the dark windows told me that it was still morning.

I hurried down the quiet corridor, hopping on one foot for several feet as I tried to get my right shoe on, and then switching feet to get my left shoe on. I didn't even bother to tie them, and continued until I got to the boat deck.

The air was chilly, but not freezing, and it smacked into me as I hurried towards the bow. The ship was steaming toward the faint line of blue on the horizon, and I picked my way through knots of passengers sleeping in the open on the deck. Finally I reached the forecastle, almost running now as I reached the front railings of the ship.

I practically collapsed, falling to my knees and hooking my arms over a bar of railing. Everything seemed to hit me at that moment, and suddenly I was crying like a baby. Thankfully there was no one nearby; my entire body shook with sobs and hot tears slid down my cheeks. I watched the sea rushing by below, the white-crested water spill out from around the bow. I buried my head in my arms and just let it all out, wracked with sobs.

First there was Jack. I'd been traveling with him for two years now, and I loved him like a brother. We'd been so close in our travels, both teaching each other so much about life. We'd seen it all, good times and bad, and we'd been through it together, with each other and Fabrizio. Hell, I didn't even know if the Italian made it.

Then there was Tommy. Somehow, in the past few days, he'd grown on me. He was a good friend, had such a wonderful sense of humor, and was such a fine person. God, and he'd been shot down by Murdoch.

Murdoch. Jesus Christ. Another close friend. He was the one who came to me with the knowledge that Thomas was falling for me; he'd been the one I could go to when Mrs. DeWitt Bukater had nearly destroyed my relationship with Thomas. He was the one who helped me back over the rail, who was touched so deeply by my saying that I valued his friendship. And he committed suicide. A man who couldn't bear to live with the weight of two lives taken by his hand, and so he'd killed himself.

And finally there was Thomas.

God, where to begin. The others might have been my friends, but Thomas also loved me. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, and the ring on my thumb was proof of that. Never had I been loved the way Thomas had loved me. Never had I known someone else who gave a rat's ass about blueprints and shipbuilding, never had anyone taught me so much. Never in all my life had I been cherished like that. Thomas had been someone I could share my deepest secrets and fears with, someone that I could have a nice conversation with, someone whom I could trust above all others. It was Thomas who loved me for my love, and who refused to let class separate us.

I watched tears slide off my knuckles and into the sea, and hated that I was crying. I never cried, and yet lately I seemed to be doing a hell of a lot of it. I must have sat there for a full ten minutes, crying over the loss of my friends and fiance, of all the passengers, and of the great liner that had brought us all together.

Finally, when the sky was graying, my tears had slowed and stopped. The cool breeze didn't feel quite as fierce, and it dried my cheeks gently, strands of hair waving under its current. I continued to stare at the horizon, watching the gray clouds, wondering what the hell I was going to do once I got to New York.

"Carrie?"

I turned slowly at the voice behind me. Lightoller stood about ten feet away, and the look on his face was almost embarrassed. I wiped my eyes to make sure the final tear was gone, and then I did my best to smile at him. "Hey, Charles."

"Good morning." he said back, hands folded behind his back, greatcoat dry now. "Feeling better?"

"Much," I said, rising and heading over to him. "You?"

"I'm fine, thank you." he spoke quietly. Lightoller really did look better, but he still had a drained look about him. "Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come share a cup of coffee with a few of the officers and I."

"Thanks, but no thanks." I said. I'd never know what to do around the other officers-- Lightoller and Lowe were the only ones I knew. "I'd better not."

"I thought you should know," he said gently. "Both Harry and-- well, Mr. Lowe and Mr. Boxhall both requested that you join us. I did, as well."

I was touched that I meant that much to the three of them, but was a little surprised at Boxhall's request, considering that he was the one who threw me into that lifeboat when I hadn't wanted to get in. "I'd feel out of place," I admitted. "Thanks, but--"

"Carrie, you were one of the biggest helps we had all night." Lightoller said quietly, meaning each word. "Lowe informed me of your help with the lifeboat. And you were of so much assistance to me with the other collapsibles. You risked your life for some of us-- we don't brush actions like that aside."

I let out a long breath, and swallowed. "You really want me there?" I asked Lightoller one more time.

"Yes." he assured me, smiling warmly at me.

I nodded then. "Okay. You have me convinced."

"Good." he smiled, and gestured to me to walk with him. "By the way," he said quietly as we picked our way through sleeping passengers. "Who were you standing with on the rail a few moments ago?"

I stared at him. "What?" When he repeated it, I said, "The cold is getting to you-- I wasn't standing with anyone."

"I saw him," Lightoller said with a sideways glance at me. "I was up on the bridge, and when I came down to get you, he was gone."

"He was just standing there?" I said suspiciously, embarrassed to have been caught by both Lightoller and that guy, crying my eyes out.

"Right next to you," Lightoller said, just as suspicious.

"Well, then, he didn't say anything." I said, then pushed the thought from my mind. "Where are we going for the coffee, anyway?"

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

The dining saloon was crowded with sleeping passengers, but off in a corner, near a large set of windows, there was a small circle of officers, all seated Indian-style on the carpet, a steaming mug of coffee before each of them. I found myself in between Lowe and Lightoller, and was introduced to Third Officer Bert Pitman before having a mug of coffee offered to me as well.

It was fairly comforting to be seated on the floor like real human beings with the officers. All of them looked dead tired, and saved no strength in trying to sit up straight or look presentable. Lowe's hair was sticking up at odd angles, and Pitman's jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Carrie," Lightoller said. "Did you hear about Will?"

"Saw it happen," I said as a large swallow of coffee went down my throat, warming me to the bone. Damn, was it good.

"So he did commit suicide, then?" Boxhall said, eyes tired with depression.

I nodded, and fought the lump in the back of my throat. "He shot two passengers and then turned the gun on himself."

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Lightoller said gently to me. "I know you two were close."

I nodded, and tried to smile my gratitude. I failed miserably, and looked around the circle. "Did Moody make it?"

"No." Lowe had to bite his lower lip to keep it from trembling, but let it go when it did no good. I found myself putting a hand on his shoulder in support. "He didn't."

"Twenty-four years old." Boxhall mumbled, leaning his elbow on his knee, tracing his finger along the lip of his coffee mug. "The kid was only twenty-four years old."

"What about Andrews?" Pitman asked me.

"He stayed behind," I told him, and raged total war with my tears. "Made me leave him. . . in the smoking room." I felt Lowe's arm around my shoulders; we held each other in our grief, and if the other officers noticed, they didn't mention it.

"I heard a steward saw him at around ten after two," Boxhall said quietly. "Said that Tom was just staring at that painting over the fireplace."

"What painting?" Lightoller asked.

"Approach to the New World." Boxhall supplied. "The steward said he tried to get Andrews to move, but the man didn't even hear him. He was just staring into space."

Lightoller passed me a handkerchief; I wiped my eyes. "Sorry," I apologized, my fist tight around the small linen cloth.

"Don't apologize," Boxhall said, staring intently at me. "I'd think something was wrong if you weren't upset."

I tried to nod, and sniffled, looked down at my coffee cup. "Hey, who made this stuff? It's really good."

"I did." Lowe said after a moment, and sniffled as well.

We talked quietly for another half an hour; by the time we were finished, it was only six o'clock a.m. I couldn't just mull around, however. I'd go crazy if I wasn't working, and I asked the officers if there was a job I could be doing. Pitman asked then asked me if I knew Morse Code, to which I replied in the affirmative. I'd picked it up at Garrison and Wheeler, along with some of the other boys. Pitman suggested that I go to the Marconi room on the ship to help out the Carpathia's wireless operator, who was probably overwhelmed, as well as Harold Bride, the junior wireless operator from the Titanic. I thanked him for the suggestion, then thanked all of them for having me to coffee. They assured me that if I needed anything during the rest of the trip, I should find them, and they'd be happy to help me out.

The date was Tuesday, April 16th, 1912. It was a brand-new day, and it was time to get to work.